Never Look Back
by Rach shutup
Summary: John's always there for Sherlock. One sided John/Sherlock, implied Jim/Sherlock. Reposted from Tumblr.


_Original Post (note that this is not my main blog): tumblr .com/post/19510929611/_

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><p>John's always there for Sherlock. He's there when he gets hurt on a case, ready to bandage the stupid bastard's various injuries without a moments notice. He's there when Sherlock's bored and without a case, when he decides that he can't take his mind clawing at his skull anymore and shoots up. He's there when Sherlock's coming down from his high, when everything stops being amazing and starts being <em>'too bright, too hot, too cold, too painful'<em>. John Watson is there for Sherlock when he's on fire, when he's on the top of his game, solving cases as if they are simple, when in actual fact he is the only man in the room who is able to connect the dots.

But John isn't there when Sherlock is_ turned on_.

He knows when it's coming. Sometimes it's when he isn't working, when there are no 'interesting' cases and he's bored. He'll get agitated, he'll move around and ruffle his hands through his hair. He will tap out random rhythms with his fingers, or slaughter his violin with tunes that give John a headache and make the neighbours complain. Then John will catch him texting, smirking at his phone. He'll go into his bedroom and get dressed, come out looking gorgeous. He'll tell John he's "going out for a while" and "not to wait up".

Other times, it'll be when he is working. Usually, he'll be so high on the case that he literally can't calm down. He'll pace the flat, pulling at his hair and chattering on about nothing in particular. He won't sleep, he won't eat, he'll merely consume enough caffeine to give an elephant heart failure and keep buzzing along. The same thing will happen, his phone will buzz, or he will send a text, and suddenly he'll excuse himself from whatever situation he is in, hopping in an expensive looking chauffeur-driven car with the windows blacked out. and disappearing for hours at a time.

Sometimes he'll come back looking disheveled, a bit rough around the edges. He'll have teeth marks and love bites on his neck, his hair will be a mess and his clothes will be creased. He'll be relaxed, calm, at ease. He'll walk through the door and greet John with a smile, relax on the sofa or go to bed. He'll be in a good mood for a while. He won't play the violin at 3am, his eating habits will be healthier and he'll actually sleep. He won't tear apart his violin or rant about annoyances or rave about how stupid everyone is. These are the good times.

Other times he'll come home looking a state. His clothes will be torn and perhaps even bloodied, his face will be bruised or his lip will be split. He'll have scrapes on his knuckles, bruising, obviously from punching someone and punching them hard. He'll walk with a slight limp, favour one side, try to hide his discomfort. He'll make small, pained moans when he sits down, delicately re-adjust himself. His appetite will disappear, he won't sleep, won't talk. He'll play his violin until his his fingers are raw, more often than not in the middle of the night. These are the bad times and John dreads them.

He already has his suspicions about where Sherlock is going. In fact, he's pretty much convinced that he knows. Then one day, Sherlock comes home after one of his little outings, looking thoroughly sexed up and content. He wanders into his bedroom and falls asleep almost straight away. John takes his phone. He can't help himself. He has to know. Despite his suspicions, he's still shocked when he reads:

"_Last night was amazing, I miss you already. Jim xo_"

He's a little bit heartbroken, too. He feels angry, betrayed, sad. Because John loves Sherlock, there's no denying it. The man saved his life, picked him up from a place of dispair and hopelessness and put the pieces of John back together, made him what he used to be: brave, proud, strong, complete. A soldier, rather than a victim.

John wanted to return the favour. Show him love, show him that he _could_ be loved, and that he didn't have to run off to the nearest _psychopath_ to get it. John's heart aches with jealousy, it makes him feel physically sick, the thought of Moriarty's hands on Sherlock's body, of his lips on Sherlock's skin. It was wrong and disgusting and it made John _furious_ at his flatmate for thinking that running off and having a lurid affair with a murderer was acceptable behavior.

It makes him angry because John wants to know what Sherlock's lips taste like, what if feels like to run his hands through Sherlock's curls, what Sherlock looks like when he's consumed with animal pleasure.

And so when Sherlock walks out of his bedroom, lounge pants hanging loosely on his hips, t-shirt creased and resting smoothly over his delicate frame, accompanied by that sweet blue dressing gown, John stands. He marches over to Sherlock, ignoring how adorable Sherlock looks when he's all sleep-addled and gorgeous, and hands him the phone with a frown set deeply on his features.

And in that moment, Sherlock knows he knows, and it's awful, because that's the point when they both realise the reality of the situation.

"John…" Sherlock speaks softly, not taking the phone. John growls, shoves the phone into his chest, forcing him to take it.

"All this time… With him. With that psychopath." He's furious, he's practically shaking with anger.

"He's not a psychopath… I…" Sherlock starts, stuttering, stumbling over his words ineloquently. It's evident to John that he has no idea what to say because there's nothing he_ can_ say to make this better.

"What the fuck, Sherlock?" John spits, his fists clenched so tightly that his short nails are digging into his palms. He shoves his finger in Sherlock's face, "You are a complete bastard. How could you do this!" He's yelling now, spitting in Sherlock's face as he does so. "How could you do this to _me_. I thought we were supposed to be friends, you dick."

Sherlock gasps, raises his hands in self defence. He's scared, John can tell. "Please, John, please. I can explain…"

John steps back, runs his hands through his hair and takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself down. "Shit. Go on then, explain this to me. Help me understand how it is that you fell in _love_ with a monster like him." He spits the L-word without even thinking about it. Part of him doubts it's true, doubts that either of them are capable of love. He waits for Sherlock to deny it.

Sherlock hesitates, bites his lip. "He's the only one who understands." He finally says, defeated. "He's not as bad as you think, John, he-"

"Not as bad as I think!" John roars, fury pulsing through his veins. "You're defending a fucking monster. He's a murder, Sherlock. He kills people for entertainment!"

Suddenly, his fist is in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock stumbles, backs himself up against the wall, completely stunned. He presses himself ahainst the wall, trying to put as much distance between himself and John, even though there's nowhere else to go. His lip is bust, blood running down his chin and onto his teeth. He gasps, raises a hand to his mouth and touches it, looking confused and somewhat scared by the blood that is transferred to the tips of his fingers. He looks at John with tears in his eyes, and John's soul shatters on the spot, because no matter what this man does, he will never be able to truly hate him.

But Sherlock doesn't say anything. He doesn't defend himself, doesn't try to justify what he has done. He doesn't deny that he will do it again, or even apologise to John, and that? That's it. He can't do this anymore.

"I hope the two of you are very happy together." He says flatly, shrugging on his jacket and picking up his wallet, phone and keys. Before he knows it, he's out the door and he doesn't look back.


End file.
